


Warm Blankets

by GhostGarrison



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Domestic, Illustrated, M/M, fallen!cas, the bunker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2013-10-21
Packaged: 2017-12-30 02:38:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1013055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostGarrison/pseuds/GhostGarrison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel finds his new found humanity cold. So very cold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warm Blankets

Castiel didn’t expect being human—being stuck in his vessel, with all the sights, sounds, feelings and sensations that came along with it—to be this… _cold._

Being stationed all around the world, from the highest peaks of the Himalayas to the deepest depths of the dark sea, he has felt cold before, albeit muted in a sense. He knew what cold was, but the realization came from logic of being knee deep in snow and ice rather than physical feeling.

Everywhere was cold, he decided. The backseat of the Impala was cold. Motel rooms were cold. Restaurants were cold. Even the bunker, what he was now calling his home, was absolutely frigid.

His room was wedged between Dean’s room near the kitchen and Sam’s room near the library at the other end of the hall, and even it was cold. His bed had a thin blanket, military grade wool if he had any guess, and a top sheet, but it still wasn’t good enough.

Castiel couldn’t find any extra blankets in the numerous storage closets in the bunker, and he was too prideful in asking Dean and Sam for theirs. They seemed to be fine with the temperature, and it drove him insane.

He started toting around his blanket, draping it around his shoulders like the cape of a superhero from one of the vintage comic books Dean has dredged up from the Library.

Under his blanket, he wore several layers of clothing, not just the signature Winchester layers but layers for warmth in mind. A long sleeve shirt, an old musty sweater with the Men of Letters symbol lovingly knitted in from one of the dressers, and a navy zip-up sweatshirt stole--uh, _borrowed_ from Sam.

Still, nothing was warm enough.

He spent the majority of his time in the bunker curled up with his blanket and a book, consuming uncountable mugs of tea and hot chocolate, even though the temperature outside was in the sixties. No amount of sweaters, blankets or tea could keep him warm. 

"Cas," Dean said, sitting back in his chair as he peered over his leather bound volume on demon lore.

"Hm?" Castiel mumbled from his blanket cocoon on the couch, frowning into the tepid amber liquid in mug, shivering. He heard the sound of the chair legs scrape across the floor of the Great Hall.

"Cas," Dean said again, sounding much closer this time. Castiel looked up from his tea, realizing that the other man had moved to stand in front of him.

Castiel raised his eyebrows in response, trying to stave off shivering as he waited for Dean to say whatever it is he needed to say. Instead, Dean just gestured with a finger, wanting Castiel to follow him. He rolled his eyes but reluctantly stood, leaving the comfort of his warmed spot on the cushions.

Dean reached out, catching the blanket falling from his shoulders and bundled it up under his arm. He lead Castiel across the Great Hall, turning down not the hallway containing their bedrooms but the one that led to the utilities rooms.

When they entered the laundry room, Dean padded over to one of the many machines that lined the walls. He threw the blanket unceremoniously into one of them, closing the lid and cranking a dial. The machine jumped to life as Dean jumped atop of it, sitting with his legs dangling off the side.

Castiel joined him, sitting next to him on the edge of the machine, not quite knowing what Dean was doing. His blanket wasn’t particularly dirty, at least in his opinion.

They sat there in comfortable silence. Castiel stared at the tiled floors, gazing upon the swirls in the marble—the Men of Letters spared no expense when building the bunker. Dean was doing the same, or so he thought, looking distractedly off into the distance.

They stayed like that for some time, probably about fifteen minutes but it felt like years. The concept of steady, unmovable time was still so new to him.

"My mom," Dean started, tapping his fingers against the metal lid of the washing machine absently. "She, uh, used to do this for me. When I was a kid."

Castiel nodded but didn’t reply, still unknowing what ‘this’ actually was.

The machine buzzed below them, signaling the cycle was over. Dean hopped from his seat, landing squarely on his feet before turning to retrieve the blanket from the drum. He held it out before Castiel, like a prize—no, like a gift.

When the fabric met his fingers, Castiel gasped. It was _warm._ Finally, something was warm. He drew it out of Dean’s grasp, pulling it to his chest in a faux hug. The heat seeped through the layers he was wearing, and it felt amazing.

"Better?" Dean asked him, leaning on the machine and looking at him expectantly for an answer.

"Yes," Castiel replied thankfully, burying his face into the warm fabric of the blanket as if the action would warm the rest of his body as well. "Thank you, Dean."

  
  
art by Prinzik


End file.
